John Ringo: Ghost

“Yes. I’m running on gut. Everybody else can run around to whatever event they want, but I’m guessing it’s the pope. The timing is right, the target is right. So I’ll need high-level access.”

“What’s the name of the undocumented female?” Johannsen asked.

“Magdelena Averina,” Mike said, pulling the first Russian name that came to mind. “And I’m under the cover name, Michael Duncan.”

“Got that, too,” Johannsen said. “I’ll put out the word that you’re headed there and give a heads-up to the locals.”

“Thanks,” Mike replied. “Out here.”

“We are not go Sarajevo?” Magdelena asked.

“Nope,” Mike said, leaning back. “We’re on our way to the City of Light.”

“The pope is going to do a large audience at the Stade de France and a high mass on Sunday at Notre Dame. The high mass is the culmination of a seventeen-country European tour.”

Colonel Mark De’Courcy was one of three military attachés in the U.S. embassy in Paris. He had graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point, served as a junior officer in the Twenty-Fourth (later Third) Infantry Division, then up the chain, mostly in staff positions, until he had managed to wangle this assignment. And as with everyone associated with military or security work in Europe, he hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep in the past two days. So he was less than thrilled about meeting some high-level, no-real-names-I’m-special agent at two in the morning at Charles DeGaulle.

“French police are all over both events like flies,” he continued as he, the agent and the agent’s Russian hooker-girlfriend walked to the waiting embassy car. It was a Peugeot with diplomatic plates. “We’ve got the call on the van and they’re looking for it. So why are you here?”

“Because I’ve been lucky every step of the way,” Mike replied. The colonel was a starchy regular Army SOB who clearly thought he was hot shit for getting such a choice assignment as military attaché to the French. Of course, the French military had sunk to such a low ebb, they’d be hard pressed to defend their country from a troop of well-trained Cub Scouts. So being a military attaché was less than impressive to Mike. “I got lucky in Russia, I got lucky in Bosnia and if this is where it’s coming, you’d better hope I get lucky here.”

“Well, we put the word out to the French security guys that you were inbound,” De’Courcy said, sighing as they got in the car. “They’re less than thrilled but willing to work with us. What are you planning on doing?”

“The events are tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” De’Courcy said. “The audience is at noon and the high mass is at four PM. Then he goes on to Berlin. That’s closer to Bosnia, I might add.”

“I know that much geography,” Mark replied dryly. “But the longer this item is in play, the more likely we are to pick it up. And if they didn’t know we were tracking, they do now with the way that IFOR took down the warehouse; that stood out like a sore thumb. I’m surprised it’s not all over the news.”

“There was a squib about it,” De’Courcy said. “We covered it with a suspected bomb-making facility.”

“Like that’s going to hold with NEST running around in coveralls that say NEST,” Mike said irritably. He thought for a moment and then shrugged. “Where’s this stadium?”

“Southwest of Paris, out in the suburbs,” De’Courcy replied, pulling a map out of his briefcase. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere away from the stadium,” Mike said. “And away from Notre Dame. Northeast of Paris is there a good hotel?”

“There’s a Hilton up there,” De’Courcy said. “Will that do?”

“I dunno,” Mike said. “Is it outside the radius of a ten-megaton blast?”

De’Courcy shot a look at the girl and his jaw worked, but he nodded. “Yeah.”

“Suits,” Mike answered. “Leave the map, give me some contact info and I’ll cut you loose. Where do you want to be dropped? I take it I can keep the car and driver?”

“At the embassy,” De’Courcy said grumpily. “It’s going to be an all-nighter. And, yeah, the car’s yours.”

Mike checked into the Hilton, taking a suite that he insisted be on the north side, and led Magdelena upstairs. They attracted looks from the late-night staff, especially since he was pretty travel-worn and both of them were carrying single bags, but he could care less about the looks.

When they got to the suite, and got rid of the entirely unnecessary bellhop, Mike showed her the two rooms.

“You can have either one you like,” he said.

“Which one will you use?” she asked, confused.

“The one you don’t,” Mike replied. “Look, I know I messed up in Bosnia. I’m sorry. I’m not carting you along to use you again. Maybe we’ll have time to get together. If we do, I’ll try to show you the more pleasant side of me. But for right now, I have to get moving. Stay in the room. Order room service if you want food. Don’t go out. You can run away if you’d like, but I don’t suggest it. And don’t call anyone. Just… watch TV or something. Okay? If we get a chance I’ll take you shopping. But I don’t think we’ll get a chance.”

Mike put his dirty clothes in the bag provided, called down and asked the management to try to get them cleaned by tomorrow, and walked out.

“Where to?” the driver said, leaning his seat upright as Mike walked to the car.

“You know this stadium the colonel was talking about?” Mike asked.

“Yes, sir,” the driver said, putting the car in gear. “There?”

“There first,” Mike replied, looking at the map. The stadium was circled in red. He first checked the legend, then made some circles with his fingers. Unless he was much mistaken, a blast there would take out the stadium and some of the burgeoning suburbs around it. But that was about it. However, a blast near Notre Dame would completely gut Paris. And the bomb was a big one, one of the nasty “city busters” from the 1960s before the era of Multiple Independent Reentry Vehicles.

“You’re American,” Mike said, putting the map away and leaning back.

“Yes, sir,” the driver said. “I’m one of the diplomatic protection drivers. They figured you might have to have secure conversations.”

“You know what we’re looking for?” Mike asked. “And what is your name, O genie? I’d hate to have to call you James.”

“Bruce Gelinas,” the driver said with a chuckle. “And, yeah, I know what you’re looking for. The colonel briefed me on the way to pick you up. You really think it’s coming here?”

“This is the target I’d pick if I was a terrorist,” Mike replied, frowning. “The French are big into appeasement of the rifs. But you’d think they’d have learned from 1939 how well that works. Yeah, it might be headed anywhere in Europe; the American option is pretty much out the way they rigged it. But the pope is the right target in the right place at the right time. They don’t have nearly as much of a hard-on for the Germans as they do the French. And waiting for Berlin just gives us more time to find it. So, yeah, I think it’s going here.”

“Great,” the driver said. “And I suppose I have to be there while you look for it.”

“Well,” Mike pointed out, “if it goes off at Notre Dame, it’s going to get the embassy, too. So sitting on your butt there won’t get you anything. You don’t have any family in town, do you?”

“Nope,” Bruce said. “I’m single and fancy free, now that my last wife filed the papers. And she’s in Texas.”

“I think I’d rather be in Texas,” Mike admitted, picking up his phone. He dialed the number for the pilot and was answered in a rather surly fashion.